JD  APPLES 


BY    HELEN    HAY   WHITNEY 


) 


HERBS  AND  APPLES 


4 'TO    BE    ALONE,    TO    WATCH    THE    DUSK    AND    WEEP 


HERBS  AND  APPLES 


BY 


HELEN    HAY   WHITNEY 

AUTHOR  OF  "  SONGS  AND  SONNETS," 
"GYPSY  VERSES,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK:  JOHN    LANE    COMPANY 

LONDON:  JOHN   LANE,  THE   BODLEY  HEAD 

MC  MX 


Copyright,  1910 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,   U.S.A. 


I  give  you  this,  the  bitter  and  the  sweet. 
It  holds  my  heart,  can  you  not  hear  it  beat  ? 
So  poor  a  gift  to  put  within  your  hand  — 
Apples  and  Herbs  !  — but  you  will  understand, 


402216 


CONTENTS 

FAGK 

To  NEIGHBOR  LIFE * 

THE  UNBURIED a 

UP  A  LITTLE  ROAD 3 

ON  CEDAR  STREET,  NEW  YORK 4 

CHE  SARA  SARA 5 

THE  DEAD  WANTON 6 

LEAVEN      7 

QUAERITUR 8 

LOVE  LAND 9 

BY  THE  WESTERN  GATE 10 

FOR  Music IJ 

THE  LITTLE  GHOST i* 

MADONNA  EVE *3 

A  CONVERSATION J4 

BE  BRAVE J5 

FORFEITURE j6 

THE  SEARCH >7 

DUST l8 

NATURE'S  CHILD J9 

VERITATIS 20 

vii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  PEACOCK 21 

ANTICIPATION .     .  22 

THE  WAYFARER 23 

RENUNCIATION 24 

ARABESQUE 25 

THE  ARCHITECTS 26 

AMBUSH 27 

THE  SCALES 28 

THE  OLD  TRAGEDY 29 

TABOO 30 

THE  RIVALS 31 

ALONE 32 

BENEATH  THE  MASK 33 

THOTH 34 

LITTLE  DANCER 35 

Sic  ITUR  AD  ASTRA 36 

THE  JUDGES 37 

THE  SPRING  PLANTING 38 

AN  IMPRESSIONIST  PICTURE 39 

SUCH  HELP  FOR  SINGING 40 

TEMPUS  EDAX  RERUM 41 

THE  COWARD .4* 

THE  LOST  ROMANY 43 

COMPENSATION 44 

UNTAMED 45 

To  PERVANCHE 46 

THE  BELLE 47 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

RELEASE 48 

THE  THIEF 49 

I  WILL  WRITE  LETTERS  TO  THE  GRASS 50 

ONLY  THIS 51 

THE  SURVIVOR 52 

MEGAERA 53 

THE  SONG  OF  MOKAI 54 

To  THE  GYPSY  MAN 55 

THERE  is  NO  DANGER  IN  DISDAIN 56 

THE  PLAYMATE 57 

AFTERWARDS 58 

THE  OLD  MAID 59 

MADNESS  ? 60 

THE  SCHOLAR      .           61 

WISDOM'S  SECRET 6z 

CAGED 63 

THE  WIFE  SPEAKS 64 

THE  ALTAR 65 


Acknowledgment  is  made  to  Messrs.  Harper  &  Bros., 
the  Century  Company,  'The  Metropolitan  Magazine,  and 
Collier  s  Weekly,  for  courteous  permission  to  reproduce 
certain  of  the  verses  included  in  this  volume. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

<«  To  BE  ALONE,  TO  WATCH  THE  DUSK  AND  WEEP  "      .     .  31 

Frontispiece 

"SMILING  SHE  FLOUTS  DEMOSTHENES  " 6 

THE  PEACOCK 2I 

LITTLE  DANCER 35 

THE  ROMANY 43 

PERVANCHE 46 

"AND    WRAP     MY    HEART    CLOSE    SHROUDED    IN     THE 

HOURS"                             5° 


HERBS   AND    APPLES 


TO   NEIGHBOR   LIFE 

NEIGHBOR  LIFE,  I  love  you  well, 
Have  you  any  goods  to  sell? 
Let  me  buy  or  let  me  borrow 
Joy,  to  tide  me  o'er  the  morrow ; 
I  will  give  you  in  exchange 
Baskets  full  of  thoughts  that  range, 
Bright  utensils  of  my  brain; 
Coins  of  feeling  you  shall  gain. 
All  I  ask  in  equal  measure 
Is  your  store  of  joy  and  pleasure. 
Neighbor  Life,  I  love  you  well, 
Have  you  any  joy  to  sell  ? 


THE   UNBURIED 

IN  the  wood  the  dead  trees  stand, 
Dead  and  living,  hand  to  hand, 
Being  Winter,  who  can  tell 
Which  is  sick  and  which  is  well? 
Standing  upright,  day  by  day 
Sullenly  their  hearts  decay 
Till  a  wise  wind  lays  them  low, 
Prostrate,  empty,  then  we  know. 

So  thro*  forests  of  the  street, 
Men  stand  dead  upon  their  feet, 
Corpses  without  epitaph ; 
God  withholds  his  wind  of  wrath, 
So  we  greet  them,  and  they  smile, 
Dead  and  doomed  a  weary  while, 
Only  sometimes  thro'  their  eyes 
We  can  see  the  worm  that  plies. 


UP  A  LITTLE   ROAD 

UP  a  little  road  with  the  morning  in  my  arms, 
Drenched  with  dew  and  tipsy  with  the  madness 

of  the  May, 
Leafy  fingers  on  my  face,  I  stop  not    for  your 

charms ! 

Love  is  waiting  round  the  turn,  to  be  my  Love 
to-day. 

Shouting  as  I  ride  on  the  springing  ringing  sod, 
Ah !    my  pony  knows  the  goal  to  which  his 

course  is  laid, 
Galloping  thro'  dawn  he  knows  he  bears  a  little 

god 

Bacchus-mad  with  happiness  who  burns  to  meet 
his  maid. 


ON  CEDAR  STREET,  NEW  YORK 

I,  WHOSE  totem  was  a  tree 

In  the  days  when  earth  was  new, 
Joyous  leafy  ancestry 

Known  of  twilight  and  of  dew, 
Now  within  this  iron  wall 

Slave  of  tasks  that  irk  the  soul, 
To  my  parents  send  one  call  - 

That  they  give  me  of  their  dole. 

Thro'  the  roar  of  alien  sound 

Grimy  noise  of  work-a-day, 
Secretly  a  voice,  half  drowned, 

Whispers  thro'  the  evening's  grey, 
"Child,  we  know  the  path  you  tread, 

Ghost  and  manes,  we  are  true; 
Cedar  spirits,  long  since  dead, 

Calm  and  sweet  abide  with  you." 


CHE   SARA   SARA 

DEEP  as  the  permanent  earth  is  deep, 

Fierce  as  its  central  fire, 
Man  is  his  own  conclusion, 

Woman  her  great  desire. 


THE   DEAD   WANTON 

SHE  was  so  light,  so  frail  a  thing, 
She  had  no  wisdom  but  her  face, 

Which  caught  men's  fancy  like  the  Spring 
Yet  held  them  but  a  moment's  space. 

She  is  the  youngest  of  the  dead, 

And  so  the  great  lean  round  her  feet ; 

They  strive  to  learn  from  her  fair  head 
Why  far-forgotten  life  was  sweet. 

For  now  she  knows  what  Plato  knows, 
And  lapped  in  languor  she  agrees 

With  Kant,  and  as  her  soft  hair  blows, 
Smiling,  she  flouts  Demosthenes. 


" SMILING,  SHE  FLOUTS  DEMOSTHENES" 


LEAVEN 

OTHERS  furnish  bread  and  meat, 
Busy  hucksters  on  the  street, 
They  will  give  you  what  you  need, 
All  the  facts  your  life  to  feed. 

Mine  are  not  these  wares  of  earth, 
I  can  give  my  love  but  mirth ; 
Let,  oh  let  this  part  be  mine, 
I  would  be  your  salt  and  wine. 


QUAERITUR 

WHAT  if  to-day,  when  I  have  made  so  sure 
That  love  is  utterly  and  wholly  mine, 

What  if  I  found  that  faith  should  not  endure 
And  all  my  trust  in  you  I  should  resign ; 

That  when  I    send    my    thoughts    like    homing 
birds 

To  your  dear  heart  they  find  no  resting  place, 
But  all  misunderstood,  far,  foreign    words, 

They  die  away  like  strangers  at  your  face. 

Love,  make  me  certain,  make  the  circuit  true, 
And  when  I  wonder,  give  the  faith  I  seek 

Perfectly  trusting,  let  me  end  in  you 

Heart    against    heart,  and    cheek    upon    your 
cheek. 


8 


LOVE   LAND 

WHERE  is  El  Dorado  ? 

Where  is  bright  Cathay  ? 
These  are  lands  where  we  should  go 

To  live  and  love  to-day. 

Miles  of  glistening  beaches 

Over  all  the  sun, 
Tropic,  spicy -laden  breeze 

To  lull  when  day  is  done. 

Gypsy  lass  and  lover 

With  the  tides  we  'd  rove  ; 

We  be  natives  of  no  land 
Save  the  land  of  love. 


BY  THE  WESTERN  GATE 

You  and  you  only  !  —  By  the  Western  gate 
That  fronts  the  falling  sun  I  shade  my  face 
And  watch  for  you.     As  one  who  's  lost  the 
race 

Tries  to  demand  no  further  gift  from  Fate 

Lest  he  be  hurled  more  low,  so  I,  who  wait 
And  want  you,  ask  no  pity  of  your  grace 
On  my  defeat,  I  only  long  to  trace 

My  lost  heart;  come  to  me,  my  need  is  great. 

I  see  the  young  men  with  their  crystal  eyes, 
They  stand  about  my  door,  their  hearts,  I 

know 

Are  breaking  in  the  poppies  that  they  bring. 
I  cannot  love  them  for  I  am  not  wise ; 
Ah,  come,  or  else  forever  let  me  go, 

I  grow  so  tired  with  waiting  in  the  Spring. 


10 


FOR  MUSIC 

THE  Indian  Summer  and  Love  have  fled, 
Oh,  red,  red  lips  like  a  crimson  rose, 

Oh,  slender  hands  with  the  tips  of  red, 

You  are  lost  in  the  land  of  Nobody-knows. 

The  sweet  breeze  blows  but  it  comes  not  back, 

The  water  flows  in  a  silver  stream, 
But  never  returns  on  its  moon-white  track, 

They    are    gone,   past    recall,    like   a   lovely 
dream. 

Ah,  crimson  lips  like  a  tilted  flower, 
Where  sweetest  honey  awaits  the  bee ; 

Come  back,  come  back  for  a  single  hour, 
Dear  Love,  my  Summer,  come  back  to  me. 


II 


THE   LITTLE   GHOST 

THE  little  one  who  loved  the  sun 

Who  only  lived  for  play, 
Ah,  why  was  she  the  one  condemned 

To  dark  and  dreams  for  aye ! 

The  perfect  perfume  of  her  life 

Was  as  a  rose's  breath, 
And  now  she  treads  eternally 

The  gusty  walks  of  Death. 


12 


MADONNA   EVE 

FROM  what  far  spicery  derives  your  hair 

The  sweet  faint    fragrance    that    enslaves    my 
sense  ? 

What  subtle  love  trick  taught  you  to  be  fair 
With  overt  lure  and  covert  reticence  ? 

Madonna  Eve,  you  bear  upon  your  breast 
A  hungry  emerald  like  the  desiring  sea, 

But  warm  upon  your  heart  lie  pearls  of  rest 
What  man  could  exorcise  such  witchery  ? 


A  CONVERSATION 

"LADDY,  leave  your  pedant's  task, 

Rove  the  world  with  me. 
Fields  and  towns  and  pretty  lands 

Together  we  would  see. 
There  be  workers  everywhere, 

You  would  not  be  missed. 
Come,  ah  come,  and  take  for  yours 

The  mouth  you  never  kissed  !  " 

"  Lady,  I  am  fain  for  play, 

So  I  may  not  go. 
Only  those  who  hate  to  toil 

The  true  enjoyment  know ; 
But  could  you  love  a  larrikin 

Whose  task  he'd  so  resign  ?  " 
"  Yes  !  —  I  'd  love  a  larrikin 

If  only  he  were  mine." 


BE   BRAVE 

BE  brave  about  yourselves,  you  little  ones, 
If  in  the  crazy  warp  and  woof  you  gleam 

With  the  insistence  of  determined  suns, 

Shine,  being  true  and  modest  in  your  dream. 

If  to  the  peace  of  nature  you  respond 

Draw  from  her  breast  your  milk,  nor  weep  the 
high 

Duties  for  lack  of  which  you  now  despond, 
Made  for  historic  planets  thro'  the  sky. 

Knowing  yourself  a  gay  and  careless  weed, 
Be  you  courageous  in  your  light  despair ; 

Sure  that  you  fill  a  space  of  unknown  need, 
Idle  and  green  in  the  bright  coat  you  wear. 

Strive  to  the  uttermost  to  find  your  worth, 
Jester  or  Gypsy,  Body,  Brain  or  Soul, 

Filling  with  perfect  cheer  your  place  on  earth, 
So  shall  the  tapestry  of  Time  be  whole. 


FORFEITURE 

So  I  have  lost  you.     When  the  utter  ache 
Shall  fade  at  length  to  mere  despondency 
What  will  the  answer  to  this  problem  be? 

They  say  that  nothing  dies,  that  all  we  stake 

Brings   some  unknown    return ;  what  then  shall 

make 

An  adequate  exchange  for  love,  to  see 
Your    hand    held  out  in  friendship  ?  —  as  for 
me 

The  episode  is  ended,  for  life's  sake. 

You  want  me  still  for  that  small  joy  I  gave, 
But  now  it  ends  for  you.     I  am  not  brave 

To  love  you  seared ;  I  have  no  happy  days 
To  brood  upon  at  dusk,  and  so  I  claim, 

As  all  the  wager  that  good  fortune  pays, 
Complete  obliteration  of  your  name. 


16 


THE   SEARCH 

I  TIRE  of  the  struggle,  the  search  for  the  ulti 
mate  I, 

There  hangs  the  chalice  of  sapphire,  the  in 
finite  sky, 

Why  thro*  the  space  of  despair  should  my  spirit 
be  hurled 

Seeking  for  truth,  when  beneath  lies  this  pearl 
of  a  world  ? 

Seers    may  direct  us  thro'  pain  to  discover  the 

soul, 
Comforting   joy   may  not  give  us  the  absolute 

whole, 
But  if  the  seers  should  be  wrong,  may  the  truth 

not  be  ours 
Thanking  dear  Life  for  its  light  and  its  beautiful 

hours  ? 


DUST 

MOTES  of  the  city  dust,  could  this  thing  be 
That  midst  your  myriad  particles  for  me 
Might  come  one  atom  out  of  Ispahan, 
One  spiced  far  memory  of  caravan. 

Indrawn  upon  my  breath  I  'd  know  an  urge 
To  dissipate  monotony,  and  purge 
The  spirit  of  its  spleen  ;  one  with  the  man 
Who  takes  the  sun  blue  air  of  Ispahan. 


18 


NATURE'S    CHILD 

I  HAD  a  friend  whose  soul  was  very  fair, 

His  word  was  wisdom   and    his    strength    was 
sure; 

His  courage  in  the  ills  he  had  to  bear 
Made  others  strong  and  able  to  endure. 

I  asked  no  love,  no  tribute  of  the  sense 

For  his  companionship  was  recompense. 

I  thought  I  was  beloved,  but  did  not  care, 
He  smiled  on  me  as  he  on  others  smiled, 

But  one  grey  day  a  chill  was  in  the  air 

And  then  to  prove  that  I  was  Nature's  child, 

He  spoke  —  "I  do  not  love  you  very  much — " 

And  all  my  friendship  shattered  at  the  touch. 


VERITATIS 

SEATED  among  the  shards  of  Potiphar 

I  pondered.    Shall  we  still  strive  on  ?  forsooth 

There  is  no  better,  that  is  good  as  Best, 
There  is  no  truer  that  is  true  as  Truth. 


THE    PEACOCK 


THE   PEACOCK 

SHE  was  more  beautiful  than  tropic  night, 
Luring,  compelling  as  the  smile  of  Fate  ; 

Like  a  poor  wastrel,  I  for  her  delight 

Squandered  my  soul  and  gained  her  idle  hate. 

Peacock  and  paroquet !  —  at  last  I  know 

The  sorriest  songsters  make  the  bravest  show. 


21 


ANTICIPATION 

THE  joy  is  in  the  making.     While  we  sow 

Our  dream  is  wonderful  with  flowers,  we  name 
The  purlieus  of  our  garden  and  the  aim 

Is  worth  the  effort,  yet  we  cannot  know 

The  garden  will  be  just  a  garden,  so 

The  dream  is  heaven.    This  way  mothers  frame 
The  child's  high  dedication  to  its  fame, 

Repaid  for  all  reality  may  show. 

God  knows  this,  so  He  lets  us  have  the  best, 

The  vast  anticipation,  rugged  man 
Joys  in  the  struggle,  triumphs  over  throes, 
Vanquished  a  thousand  times  he  still  finds  zest 

In  hope  and  all  his  pleasure  in  a  plan 
To    be  fulfilled    at    length    in    Heaven? — who 
knows. 


THE   WAYFARER 

HALF  way  to  happiness, 
The  whole  way  back  again, 

Stumbling  up  the  stubborn  hill 
From  the  luring  lane. 

Little  sunset  House  of  Hearts 

Standing  all  alone, 
I  could  come  and  sweep  the  leaves 

From  your  stepping  stone. 

I,  and  he,  could  light  your  fires 

Laughing  at  the  rain 
But  O  it's  far  to  Happiness, 

A  short  way  back  again. 


RENUNCIATION 

NOT  what  I  ask,  but  what  I  do  not  ask, 
O  my  Beloved,  proves  my  love  for  you. 

And  love  can  set  to  love  no  harder  task 
Than  wistful  silence,  reticence  to  sue. 

I  lock  my  lips,  I  force  a  wise  content 
With  all  my  being  wailing  for  a  sign. 

Ah,  if  men  knew  what  woman's  smiling  meant 
When  fierce  and  hard  the  heart  cries  out  "  He  's 


mine." 


Mothers  of  men  are  we,  we  barren  ones 

Who  say  "  Be  happy,  dear,  and  play  your  part." 

What  matter  how  we  yearn,  you  are  our  sons 
Whose  every  footfall  breaks  a  woman's  heart. 


ARABESQUE 

GOLD  fish,  rose  and  red 

As  lady  Lillith's  hair, 
Mauve  and  blue  as  curling  smoke 

And  water-sapphires  there. 

At  the  fountain's  brim 

I  built  a  little  dream, 
As  a  goldsmith  cunningly 

I  made  it  flash  and  gleam. 

I  wrought  a  maiden  shape, 

I  colored  it  with  love, 
Scarlet  mouth  and  breast  of  pearl 

And  eyes  of  turtle  dove 

Thro'  hours  of  moony  dark, 
I  woo'd  her  for  my  bride 

But  ah  !  I  could  not  build  her  soul, 
So  with  the  dawn  she  died. 


THE  ARCHITECTS 

How  shall  we  build  it  curiously  well, 

Our  house  to  live  and  love  in  ?  —  Shall  it  be 

Only  significant  to  you  and  me, 
Or  shall  it  be  a  palace  where  may  dwell 
Those  whom  our  spirits  notice  ?     May  we  tell 

An  architect  to  loose  his  fancy  free 

To  toss  up  towers  in  soaring  ecstasy 
With  Doric  dignity  or  temple  bell  ? 
Or  shall  we  build  it  with  our  hands,  alone, 

Working  together  over  wood  and  stone 
To  learn  an  art  we  never  knew,  and  strive, 

Patient,  to  raise  with  faith  and  trust  and  love. 
Fashioned  so  cunningly  it  must  survive, 

A  secret  cottage  in  a  silent  grove  ? 


26 


AMBUSH 

CRAFTY  Chieftain,  where  you  lie 
You  can  see  the  clouds  drift  by, 
Waiting  in  the  dusky  fern 
For  your  enemy's  return. 

Does  the  beauty  of  that  place 
Never  tell  you  of  my  face, 
I,  you  left,  to  plot  and  plan 
For  the  ending  of  a  man  ?  — 

You  had  better  sought  my  aid, 
I  have  met  him  unafraid, 
We  have  wandered  all  alone 
Underneath  a  yellow  moon. 

We  have  found  the  end  of  strife 
Is  the  waking  up  to  life  — 
Therefore  you,  who  forced  my  vow, 
Take  my  all  of  wisdom  now. 

Love  has  taught  me  but  one  truth  — 
Love  is  merry,  love  is  youth, 
We  be  children,  he  and  I. 
Where  is  your  sagacity  ? 

27 


THE   SCALES 

I  WONDER  if  the  store  of  joy 

And  love  is  limited, 
And  if  because  my  heart  is  glad 

Some  other  heart  has  bled. 

Believing  this,  a  balance  just 
Of  recompense,  I  pray 

That  my  beloved  gained  the  joy 
I  did  not  have  to-day. 


THE   OLD   TRAGEDY 

DID  I  allure  you  ?  —  I  only  meant  to  love  you, 
I  only  meant  to  be  so  dear  you  could  not  let 

me  go. 
I  held  you  close  against  my  heart,  bending  down 

above  you, 

As  mothers  brood  above  their  babes,  I  loved 
you,  loved  you  so. 

'T  was  passion  that  moved  you,  called  to  you  and 

caught  you  ; 
You  never  felt  my  tenderness  full  launched  on 

your  desire. 
You  never  knew  the  friendship  and  sympathy  I 

brought  you. 

Ah,  Mary  pity  women  when  their  veins    are 
filled  with  fire. 

And  so  I  have  lost  you,  I  who  never  won  you ; 
You    thought  me  but  a  siren  by  your  crafty 

arts  beguiled. 
1  hate  myself  and  scorn  you  for  the  honor  I  have 

done  you. 

I  leave  you,  bitter  woman,  and  I  came  to  you 
a  child. 

29 


TABOO 

Now  am  I  sacred,  for  that  holy  thing, 

Your  touch,  has  made  me  as  a  god ;  to-day 

I  am  magnificent,  I  am  a  king 

To    whom    my  fellow  men   must   cringe  and 
pray. 

Such  is  taboo ;  but  when  to-morrow  comes 
I  may  look  once  upon  the  sun  and  you ; 

Then,  thro'  the  dawn,  with  wailing  and  sad  drums 
I  pay  the  utter  price.  —  Such  is  taboo  ! 


THE  RIVALS 

SEATED  in  my  ingle  nook 

With  Duty  by  my  side, 
How  I  strove  to  see  her  charms 

And  take  her  for  my  bride ! 

"  Sweet,"  I  said,  "  I  love  you  so  "  - 

And  suddenly  I  heard 
The  laughing  call  of  Beauty's  voice 

And  all  my  soul  was  stirred. 

Once  again  she  cried  my  name 
And  gone  was  every  doubt, 

For  who  could  stay  at  Duty's  side 
When  Beauty  calls  without? 


ALONE 

I  ONLY  wanted  room  to  be  alone. 

I  saw  the  days  like  little  silver  moons 
Cool  and  restrained  shine  forth  ;  there  were  no 
noons 

To  make  me  glad  with  glory,  to  atone. 

I  dreamed  of  solitude.     When  one  has  known 
Ardent  and  eager  verity,  the  tunes 
Of  semi-truths  are  sweet,  as  subtle  runes 

Attest  the  bud  more  dear  than  flower  full  blown. 

To  be  alone,  to  watch  the  dusk  and  weep 
For  beauty's  face  that  is  so  veiled,  to  know 
How  exquisite  the  earth  breaths  come  and  go, 

To  feel  my  life  a  silent,  empty  room 

Where   lovely   thoughts   might  take  new  shape 
and  bloom, — 

This  is  the  dream  that  is  more  dear  than  sleep. 


BENEATH   THE   MASK 

I  SAID  that  men  were  cowards, 
I  thought  that  men  were  brave, 

I  said  that  women  gained  no  faith 
For  all  the  love  they  gave. 

Beneath  a  mask  of  scorning 

I  wore  a  heart  of  trust, 
But  laughed  in  all  my  lovers'  eyes 

And  vowed  their  vows  were  dust. 

Time  showed  my  words  were  true  ones, 
My  thoughts  have  proved  no  test, 

But  still  beneath  my  mask,  I  say 
I  know  my  dreams  were  best. 


33 


THOTH 

HEWN  from  basalt,  black  as  sin, 

Blind  eyes  staring,  hands  on  knees,- 

This  is  Thoth,  who  shall  survive 
All  your  fair  divinities. 

Mars  and  Venus,  piping  Pan, 
White  Diana,  Cupid  sweet, — 

All  their  beauty,  all  their  pride, 
Lie  like  ashes  round  his  feet. 

Vast  and  calm  and  ultimate 
Ere  this  orb  dissolves  in  space 

Life's  last  glimpse  to  man  shall  be 
Thoth,  with  his  impassive  face. 


34 


LUCRETIA- VAN- HORN- 
LITTLE    DANCER 


LITTLE  DANCER 

O  LITTLE  dancer,  slim  as  a  new  moon, 

A  candle  flame  blown  by  the  wind  —  how  soon 

Will  all  this  be  forgotten  !     Do  you  care 

The  pagan  poppies  dying  in  your  hair; 

Do  you  despair  to  think  that  even  as  they 

Your  lovely  life  will  tarnish  in  a  day  ? 

How  can  we  keep  you,  butterfly  !  —  O  must 

Such  lovely  grace  resolve  itself  in  dust? 

We  must  believe  that  some  day  when  you  lie 

Hid  from  the  lights,  beneath  the  open  sky 

The  trees  will  bend  more  perfectly  above  you, 

The  flowers  dance  gayer  for  they  '11   know  and 

love  you, 

And  we  will  mind  a  little  less  the"cold, 
Remembering  your  grace  when  we  are  old. 


35 


SIC   ITUR  AD   ASTRA 

IF  it  be  educational  to  breast 

Salt  lipped  the  wave  that  is  the  woe  of  Earth, 
Who  could  be  called  a  fool?     There  is  no  rest 

From  sorrow  in  this  island  of  re-birth. 

And  yet,  ringed  'round  with  shadow  as  we  are, 
In  the  penumbra  we  may  all  discern 

Glowing  and  gay  the  promise  of  a  star 
For  the  adventurer  with  faith  to  yearn. 


THE  JUDGES 

WATCH  me,  eyes  of  the  wind  and  rain, 
See  if  I  come  to  the  dusk  with  stain, 

Search  me,  eyes  of  the  soaring  sun, 

See  what  mischief  my  hands  have  done. 

If  there  be  beauty  of  word  or  deed, 
If  there  be  truth  or  a  scorn  of  greed, 

Give  me  the  peace  of  your  dark,  sweet  hours, 
Let  me  be  still  as  your  moon  and  flowers. 

If  there  be  harm  to  a  heart  that  trusts, 
If  there  be  pander  to  sordid  lusts, 

Curse  and  condemn  me  to  wide-eyed  pain, 
Judge,  and  pay  me,  eyes  of  the  rain. 


37 


THE   SPRING  PLANTING 

"  WHAT  shall  we  plant  for  our  Summer,  my  boy, — 
Seeds  of  enchantment  and  seedlings  of  joy  ? 

Brave  little  cuttings  of  laughter  and  light  ? 

Then  shall  our  Summer  be  flowery  and  bright." 

"  Nay!  — You  are  wrong  in  your  planting,"  said  he, 
"  Have  we  not  grass  and  the  weeds  and  a  tree  ? 

Why  should  we  water  and  weary  away 

For  sake  of  a  flower  that  lives  but  a  day  !  " 

So  she  made  gardens  which  he  would  not  dig, 

Tended  her  apricot,  apple  and  fig. 
Then,  when  one  morning  he  chanced  to  appear, 

Sadly  he  noticed  —  "No  trespassing  here." 


AN   IMPRESSIONIST   PICTURE 

"  How  do  you  do, "  I  said ;  the  yellow  coat 
She  wore  was  like  a  golden  serpent's  skin. 
I  took  her  white  gloved  hand,  my  voice  grew 
thin 

As  tho'  her  hand  were  tight  about  my  throat. 

The  air  was  green  with  heat,  a  flaccid  note 
I  did  not  fail  to  see,  for  heat  might  win 
My  cause ;  her  weary  soul  looked  from  within 

And  saw  the  white  sails  flapping  on  my  boat. 

"  Coolness  and  rest "  my  eyes  were  whispering, 
In  Isles  where  morn  grows  never  afternoon, 
Where  Passion  buds  forever  with  the  Spring, 
Nor  wanes  with  shifting  tides  of  sea  and  moon, 
But  —  "  How  are  you  ?  "  she  said,  and  that  was  all, 
And  tho'  she  smiled,  she  passed  beyond  recall. 


39 


SUCH   HELP   FOR   SINGING 

SUCH  help  I  have  for  singing ! 

The  little  winds  a-stir 
Touch  gently  on  the  lisping  leaves 

Like  dainty  dulcimer. 

The  sights  and  scents  of  April  — 

What  dreams,  what  themes  they  bring 

While  gaunt  crows  cry  their  gasconade 
Down  all  the  ways  of  Spring. 

Such  happy  help  for  singing ! 

And  round,  below,  above 
The  air  is  thrilling  with  my  joy 

Of  love,  love,  love. 


40 


TEMPUS  EDAX  RERUM 

UPON  the  silence  of  my  unconcern 

The  little  noise  that  was  your  name  falls  dead. 

I  can  remember  how  your  mouth  was  red, 
In  the  lost  years,  but  tho'  the  senses  yearn 
For  some  unguessed  desire,  they  never  turn 

To  that  vitality,  your  face  !  —  We  sped 

So  swiftly  thro'  our  burning  hour.  We  said 
Drink  deep,  't  will  never  end ;  too  late  we  learn 
That  lovely  passion's  face  so  soon  is  grey, 

That  notes  too  often  pressed  upon  grow  dumb, 
That  after  the  high  climax  crowns  a  day 

The  dusk  seems  long  and  empty.     We  who 

come 

To  taste  again  Life's  feast,  why  must  it  be 
We  meet  such  ghosts  to  chill  our  revelry  ? 


THE  COWARD 

WISHFUL  of  many  honors, 
He  was  too  lame  to  climb, 

And  so  he  sat  to  wait  for  Death, 
Forgetting  to  be  brave. 

He  never  saw  the  windfalls, 
From  off  the  trees  of  Time, 

Drop  down  in  mellow  chance  to  him 
The  while  he  digged  his  grave. 


42 


THE   ROMANY 


THE   LOST   ROMANY 

THE   Romany  has   gone,  he    has   taken   all    my 

kisses, 
I  knew  I  could  not  keep  him,  so  I  laughed 

and  let  him  go. 
I  do  not  know  the  road  where  his  freedom  and 

his  bliss  is, 

So  take  my   sober   spinning  where   no    gypsy 
winds  can  blow. 

I  will  find  my  life  serene,  I  will  wed  a  pleasant 

lover, 

I  may  think  no  more  of  perfume  and  the  lin 
gering  in  the  lane ; 
I  will  rear  me  sturdy  children,  and  my  soul  I  will 

discover, 

For  I  will  not  love  a  Romany  in  all  this  world 
again. 


43 


COMPENSATION 

IF  one  grew  blind  thro'  gazing 

Wide-eyed  upon  the  sun, 
What  matter  when  such  memoried  light 

Would  last  till  life  were  done. 

If  one  should  die  of  loving, 

Divinely  wild,  and  brave, 
What  matter  with  such  dreams  to  dream 

Within  the  quiet  grave. 


UNTAMED 

AH,  we  weary  so  with  kisses, 

Weary  so  with  your  caresses, 
As  the  hooded  hawk  returning 

To  its  tinkling  bells  and  jesses, 
So  we  flutter  to  the  prison 

Of  your  arms,  in  meek  surrender, 
And  we  grieve  when  you  are  angry, 

And  we  smile  when  you  are  tender, 
But  our  souls,  untamed,  are  soaring 
Where  no  blandishments  can  teach  them, 

Free  our  hearts,  and  free  our  spirits, 
Where  your  hands  can  never  reach  them. 


45 


TO   PERVANCHE 

IF  you  were  mine —  (for  all  the  little  flowers 
That  see  you,  weary  of  their  innocence)  — 
If  prayers  that  have  been  pale  with  penitence 

Grew  purple  with  our  passion,  all  the  hours 
From  sun  to  sun  would  be  unique  with  bliss, 
Little  red  mouth  that  is  not  mine  to  kiss ! 

You  are  not  mine  and  you  will  never  be, 
And  so  I  am  magnanimous,  I  give 
My  love  and  you  to  Time,  and  you  shall  live 

Bride  of  his  avid  passion.     I  will  see 

The  moon  of  all  this  lure  and  beauty  set, 
And  I  will  turn  from  you  and  quite  forget. 


PERVANCHE 


THE  BELLE 

SHE  spread  her  atlas  petticoat 

So  rare,  so  fine  to  see. 
Her  bonnet  was  of  Tuscan  straw, 

Her  shawl  was  Turkey  red. 
She  peacocked  gay  before  men's  eyes, 

This  lady  of  degree, 
On  slippered  tiny  feet,  and  ah ! 
She  wished  that  she  were  dead. 

At  every  ball,  at  every  rout 

She  was  the  toast  of  town ; 
But  no  one  knew  who  called  her  cold 

What  cruel  wound  had  she. 
The  laughing  gallant  that  she  loved 

Had  scorned  her  high  renown, 
And  now  another  bore  his  babe, 

And  held  it  on  her  knee. 


47 


RELEASE 

How  may  we  be  released  from  memories  ? 
One  dreads  each  green  renewal  of  the  grain, 
Reviving  ancient  life.     If  but  the  brain 

Might  be  made  clean  of  last  year's  withered  lies, 

Blown  like  brown  leaves  across  the  April  skies 
In  hateful  resurrection,  and  retain 
Only  the  springs  of  promise,  fine  and  sane, 

And  a  kind,  leading  hand  to  make  us  wise. 

If  with  the  running  sap  a  royal  birth 

Each  year  might  be  accomplished,  strong  and 

free 
With  the  sweet  prescience  of  virginity, 

Then  were  we  true  inheritors  of  earth, 
And  the  large  lonely  stars  no  more  should  see 
The   age    worn  phoenix-lives    that   make    our 
dearth. 


THE   THIEF 

DID  you  see  the  rascal  with  the  rain-grey  eyes  ? 
He  robbed  me  of  my  happiness  before  I  knew 

its  worth. 

He  stole  into  my  garden  and  took  it  by  surprise, 
When  midnight  hid  his  wicked  ways  upon  the 
sleeping  earth. 

How  shall  I  arrest  him,  for   he  took  away  my 

Spring, 

Took  away  my  April  'neath  his  cloak  of  steam 
ing  rain. 
Tho'  he  left  his  Summer  and  a  choir  of  birds  that 

sing, 

Nothing  will  content  me  for  I  want  my  Spring 
again. 


49 


I  WILL    WRITE   LETTERS  TO 
THE  GRASS 

I  WILL  write  letters  to  my  friend  the  grass, 
I  will  sing  all  my  songs  to  lilac  flowers 

Gather  the  spices  in  the  airs  that  pass, 

And    wrap    my  heart    close    shrouded    in  the 
hours. 

I  dread  man's  huge  impertinence ;  he  creeps 
Thro'  the  inviolate  silences  of  Spring 

Like  a  marauder,  waking  that  which  sleeps 
To  gather  strength  for  lyric  blossoming. 

I  will  write  all  my  letters  to  the  grass. 

The  world  shall  be  resolved  into  a  cry 
Faint  as  a  little  voice  that  cries  Alas ! 

And  I  will  laugh  alone  beneath  the  sky. 


5° 


"  AND    WRAP    MY    HEART    CLOSE    SHROUDED    IN    THE    HOURS 


ONLY   THIS 

WE  need  demand  no  further  gift  from  Heaven, 
We  might  dispense  with  documents  and  creeds, 

If  but  this  one  great  grace  to  us  were  given — 
The  strength  to  follow  where  our  reason  leads. 


THE   SURVIVOR 

BEAUTY  will  crumble  with  tasking, 
Love  rarely  lasts  for  a  year, 

Virtue  is  sold  for  the  asking, 
Bravery  fades  before  fear. 

Youth  never  lives  till  the  morrow, 

One  thing  of  all  is  alive, 
Joy  cannot  quench  it,  or  sorrow, 

Folly  alone  shall  survive. 

Folly,  from  cradle  to  burning, 
Toys  for  the  great  and  the  small, 

None  shall  escape  her  by  learning  — 
Folly  has  rattles  for  all ! 


MEGAERA 

ALWAYS  to  suffer  so,  to  want  and  weep 
With  woe  that  groweth  every  day  more  deep ; 
To  don  the  green  robe  of  tormented  scorn, 
And  ever  curse  the  hour  that  love  was  born  ! 
Furies,  my  Sisters  !  have  you  no  surcease 
For  me  to  whom  no  death  shall  bring  release  ? 

They  name    me  Jealous   One.     They    hate    my 

name, 

The  ages  hold  me  high  to  endless  shame ; 
How,  if  I  suffer  so,  does  no  one  care 
And  pity,  for  the  wrath  that  I  must  bear  ? 
Gods  !  let  me  go,  your  service  wrecks  and  sears, 
The  vase  must  break  that  holds  so  many  tears. 


53 


THE   SONG   OF   MOKAI 

HE'S  dead,  I  watched  him  die. 

He  cast  a  spell  on  my  mate, 
They  loved,  and  the  moon  whirled  'round  the  sky, 

They  mocked  at  my  rage  and  hate. 

Blood  red  from  the  burning  sea 

The  sun  rose,  and  I  knew  ! 
My  soul  whined  wild  little  songs  to  me, 

I  did  what  I  had  to  do. 

I  have  taken  the  bone  of  his  thigh, 

I  have  fashioned  it  into  a  horn ; 
And  I  sing  my  soul's  song,  shrill  and  high, 

And  curse  the  day  he  was  born. 


54 


TO   THE   GYPSY  MAN 

Is  there  no  room  in  your  gypsy  heart 

Where  a  woman's  love  might  lie 
Warm  and  sheltered,  your  prize  and  song, 

As  you  wander  beneath  the  sky  ? 

No,  for  you  say,  "  I  '11  carry  no  weight, 

I  must  be  free,  be  free ; 
I  '11  carry  no  love  in  my  gypsy  heart 

To  make  a  drag  for  me." 

Little  you  know,  then,  love  is  the  cloak 
That  shelters  you  from  the  storm ; 

Love  makes  the  shoes  for  your  gypsy  feet, 
Love  is  your  coat  so  warm. 

Though  you  take  no  purse  and  you  take  no  staff 

You  cannot  escape  the  load 
Of  a  woman's  longing  and  woman's  love 

That  follows  you  down  the  road. 


55 


THERE    IS    NO    DANGER    IN 
DISDAIN 

THERE  is  no  danger  in  disdain, 

No  grief  in  perfidy  ; 
The  meek  they  are  who  taste  of  pain 

And  matchless  misery. 

The  hearts  who  give,  and  giving,  die, 
Could  they  but  learn  the  way 

To  take,  and  laugh  and  then  deny, 
They  still  might  live  their  day. 


THE   PLAYMATE 

BROWN  boy  running  on  a  wide  wet  beach, 
Free  as  the  water  and  the  wind  are  free ; 

Eyes  of  an  odalisque  and  skin  of  a  peach, 
O  for  such  a  playmate  to  play  with  me !  — 

Drenched  with  the  sunshine  of  the  long  brave 
hours, 

How  we  would  tumble  in  the  white  wild  spray  ; 
Then,  drowsy  children,  fall  asleep  like  the  flowers, 

And  wake  keen  and  merry  to  a  new  clean  day. 


57 


AFTERWARDS 

You  know  how  I  came  to  you, 

World  beaten,  tossed  aside ; 
Ready  for  death  at  a  hangman's  hand, 

Stript  of  all  hope  or  pride. 

Leaning,  you  gathered  me  up 

Close  to  your  great  sweet  heart, 
Lulled  me  and  told  me  to  be  a  man, 

Taught  me  your  wonderful  art. 

Now  I  am  very  wise, 

Proud  with  your  love's  true  vow ; 
Glorious  with  power,  —  I  am  more  than  a  man, 

What  will  you  do  with  me  now ! 


THE   OLD   MAID 

AH,  Heaven  !     How  soon  my  body  will  be  old  ! 

I  powder  and  I  perfume  and  I  tire 

With  the  long  wasting  of  my  one  desire. 
I  choose  fair  colors,  furs,  and  antique  gold 
To  draw  men's  eyes  and  hands,  and  yet  how  cold, 

How  careless  are  their  eyes.     I  see  the  fire 
Flame  from  my  neighbor,  and  I  can  aspire 
To  only  friendship.     I  have  tried  the  bold, 
The  luring  attitude,  the  timid  mien, 

The  boyish,  wise,  or  simple,  all  in  vain. 
I  know  the  women  laugh  at  me,  but  oh, 
How  can  I  let  my  dreamed  perfection  go  ? 

I  am  a  woman,  I  must  have  a  man 

Only  to  ratify  my  nature's  plan. 


59 


MADNESS  ? 

THEY  say  I  'm  mad  because  I  stare 
And  look  as  tho'  they  were  not  there, 
Because  I  only  speak  when  aught 
Occurs  to  me  by  way  of  thought. 

Instead  of  serving  Fashion's  creeds, 
I  cut  my  coat  to  fit  my  needs. 
I  laugh  at  grief  and  only  weep 
When  noisy  life  disturbs  my  sleep. 

My  dreams  are  delicate  and  wild ; 
Was  ever  wise  man  so  beguiled  ? — 
Mad,  am  I  mad  ! — then  pray  that  you 
May  some  day  hope  for  madness  too  ! 


60 


THE   SCHOLAR 

FROM  what  sweet  masters  have  I  fathomed 
doubt, 

What  love  and  laughter  taught  me  to  be  blind; 
How  patient  did  they  point  the  letters  out 

Latin  and  Greek  to  my  bewildered  mind. 

Now  I  am  very  wise,  I  know  the  V 

The  little  ca'  of  doubt's  first  faint  distress 

Then,  letter  perfect,  I  recall  the  way 
Thro'  all  the  alphabet  of  bitterness. 


61 


WISDOM'S  SECRET 

COERCED  by  Furies  who  persuaded  me 
That  life  was  imminent  with  idleness. 

Their  jibes  made  mad,  their  lashes  aided  me 
To  grasp  the  accident  of  bitterness. 

Come    storm !    I    cried,    come    passion    and 

despair, 
For   calm    inhibits    growth !  —  I    called   on 

fire 
To  sear  my  comfortable  days,  and  wear 

The  nights  to  wastes  of  torment  and  desire. 

Then  pausing  breathless,  in  a  little  wood 
I  met  with  Wisdom  laughing  in  the  sun ; 

She  said,  "  Lie  still,  for  idleness  is  good, 
And  grow  in  peace  as  I  myself  have  done." 


62 


CAGED 

ONCE  I  had  wings  —  I  had  no  heart  to  fly, 

They  put  me  in  a  cage,  I  did  not  die. 

They  tamed  me,  taught  me  tricks  and  bade  me 

sing; 

I  waited,  bore  it  patiently ;  one  thing 
I  knew,  that  some  day  it  might  be 
The  cage  would  open  and  I  should  be  free. 
I  waited  endlessly,  —  at  last  the  day  ! 
Faint  with  delight  I  thought  to  fly  away, 
Ah,  but  the  mockery  of  that  open  door  !  — 
My  wings  were  powerless,  I  could  fly  no  more. 


THE   WIFE   SPEAKS 

NOT  all  those  women  you  have  loved  and  left, 

O  my  Beloved,  can  stir  my  jealousy  ; 

Not  the  light  loves  which  you  forgot  for  me, 
For  my  heart's  fingers  made  by  life  most  deft 
Have  mended  all  the  rents  their  arrows  cleft 

And  from  their  old  enchantments  set  you  free. 

But  one  is  my  despair,  and  only  she, 
The  one  who  loved  you,  hopeless  and  bereft. 

How  can  I  give  as  much,  who  hold  your  heart 
As  she,  unloved  who  gave  with  scorn  of  gain  ? 

So  do  the  angels;  at  her  name  I  smart 

And  feel  a  sordid  bargainer  who  gives 

For  fair  exchange ;  I  cannot  heal  the  pain, 

I  am  defeated  by  her  while  she  lives. 


THE   ALTAR 

SOME  take  comfort  from  a  star, 

Thro*  the  slow  grey  surge  of  Time, 

Some  take  joy  from  ruddy  war, 
Lust  of  conflict,  heat  of  crime. 

In  these  days  of  codes  and  creeds, 
Gods  may  wander  newly  born, 

Every  day  for  each  man's  needs 
Bringing  blessings  thro'  the  morn. 

I  will  take  a  happy  word, 

Open  heart  and  hand  for  play, 

And  a  song  which  none  have  heard 
For  my  altar  of  the  day. 


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A  glow  of  inspiration  that  merits  better  than  that  of  any  living  poet  the  high  adjective, 

Vergilian.  —  New  Yo>k  Evening  Post. 
Work  which  will  live,  one  may  venture  to  say,  as  long  as  the  language.  —  Philadelphia 

Public  Ledger. 

NEW   POEMS.     $1.50  net.     Half  Morocco,  $5.00  net. 
Postage  and  packing  12  cents. 

Contains  "On  Hearing  Samaroff  Play,"  "Vivisection,"  "Leopold  of 
Belgium,"  "To  Richard  Watson  Gilder,"  "To  the  Invincible  Republic," 
"  Sonnets  to  Miranda,"  and  "  The  Woman  With  the  Serpent's  Tongue." 

"  To  the  Invincible  Republic  "  is  full  of  a  generous  and  admiring  appreciation.  All  of 
these  poems  are  explicit,  strong,  and  interesting.  — New  York  Sun. 

Times  —  William  Watson  is,  above  all  things,  an  artist  who  is  proud  of  his  calling  and 
conscientious  in  every  syllable  that  he  writes.  To  appreciate  his  work  you  must  take  it  as  a 
whole,  for  he  is  in  line  with  the  high  priests  of  poetry,  reared,  like  Ion,  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Delphic  presences  and  memories,  and  weighing  every  word  of  his  utterance  before  it  is  given 
to  the  world. 

Athenceum  —  His  poetry  is  a  "criticism  of  life,"  and,  viewed  as  such,  it  is  magnificent 
in  its  lucidity,  its  elegance,  its  dignity.  .  .  .  We  revere  and  admire  Mr.  Watson's  pursuit 
of  a  splendid  ideal ;  and  we  are  sure  that  his  artistic  self-mastery  will  be  rewarded  by  a 
secure  place  in  the  ranks  of  our  poets.  .  .  .  We  may  express  our  belief  that  Mr.  Watson 
will  keep  his  high  and  honorable  station  when  many  snowier  but  shallower  reputations  have 
withered  away,  and  must  figure  in  any  representative  anthology  of  English  poetry.  .  .  . 
"Wordsworth's  Grave"  is,  in  our  judgment,  Mr.  Watson's  masterpiece  ...  its  music  is 
graver  and  deeper,  its  language  is  purer  and  clearer,  than  the  frigid  droning  and  fugitive 
beauties  of  the  "  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard." 

SABLE  AND  PURPLE.    $1.25  net.    Postage  10  cents. 

Boston  Transcript — Still  the  poet  whose  inspirational  fantasy  gives  distinction  to 
modern  English  Literature. 

Spectator  —  k.  great  artist,  "  Sable  and  Purple"  is  of  a  high  excellence. 


THE  WORKS  OF  LAURENCE  HOPE 


INDIA'S   LOVE    LYRICS,  including  « The 
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COMPLETE   WORKS. 

Uniform  Edition.     3  volumes.     In  box. 

INDIA'S   LOVE  LYRICS. 

STARS    OF   THE   DESERT. 

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SONGS  FROM  THE  GARDEN  OF 
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INDIA'S    LOVE    LYRICS 

BY  LAURENCE  HOPE 
The  Ne*w  York  Commercial: 

Its  colors  are  elemental,  silver  and  gold  and  red.  It  is  heavy  with  the 
breath  of  citron  groves,  cool  with  the  tinkling  of  temple  bells,  and  the  air  of 
night,  and  the  cries  of  wild  peacocks  and  parrots.  ...  In  many  ways  this 
volume  of  translation  is  the  most  important  contribution  to  poetry  that  the 
season  has  as  yet  brought  forth. 
The  Baltimore  Sun: 

There  is  nothing  stale  or  hackneyed  in  this  book  5  newness,  freshness, 
and  variety  are  found  on  every  page.      These  poems  are  true  lyrics,  for  they 
give  us  true  glimpses  into  the  hearts  of  men. 
The  Chicago  Tribune: 

A  volume  of  passionate  love  poems  written  by  a  true  poet. 
The  Chicago  Inter-Ocean : 

They  are  in  several  metres,  handled  always  with  graceful  ease,  and  often 
with  intensity.      The  coloring  is  vivid  and  the  music  subtle.      The  book   is 
redolent  with  the  atmosphere  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 
The  Boston  Evening  Transcript : 

Mr.  Hope  is  a  thorough  artist  to  his  fingertips, and  his  choice  of  words 
and  images  is  as  keen  and  exact  as  his  ability  to  adapt  Indian  literature  to  the 
more  prosaic  mood  and  tongue  of  the  Anglo-Saxon. 
The  Athenaeum : 

Mr.  Hope  has  caught  admirably  the  dominant  notes  of  this  Indian  love 
poetry,  its  delirious  absorption  in  the  instant,  its  out-of-door  air,  its  melancholy. 

STARS    OF    THE    DESERT 

BY  LAURENCE  HOPE 
The  Washington  Mirror: 

The  author  has  so  completely  infused  the  charm  of  the  Orient  into  this 
volume  that  one  is  transported  for  the  time  and  lost  in  the  poetic  beauty  of 
his  surroundings,  finds  no  jarring  chord  nor  is  disposed  to  shrink  from  the 
frankness  of  this  translation  of  oriental  verse. 
The  Chicago  Tribune: 

It  is  still  a  question  whether  these  are  direct  translations  or  whether  they 
are  written  in  the  Hindu  style  by  Laurence  Hope.      Perhaps  she  has  done  for 
the  Hindu  poets  what  FitzGerald  did  for  Omar. 
The  Conservator : 

He  seems  to  exhale  an  oriental  atmosphere.      He  sings  musically.     I  can 
follow  the  delicate  strain  by  which  Hope  saves  himself  from  stepping  beyond 
the  bounds  of  a  vital  reserve. 
The  New  York  Star  : 

The  author  is  imbued  with  the  glowing  passion  of  Eastern  romance. 
The  New  York  Globe : 

The  theme,  in  almost  every  instance  love,  is  treated  with  feverish  abandon. 


KING    ALFRED'S    JEWEL 

THIRD    EDITION 

BY  KATRIN A  TRASK.  Author  of  "  Night  and  Morning/  "  Mors 
et  Victoria,"  etc.  Cloth.  12mo.  $1.25  net.  Postage  10  cents.  With 
Colored  Frontispiece  reproducing  the  Jewel  now  at  Oxford. 

The  English  speaking  world  has  waited  a  thousand  years  for  a 
worthy  dramatic  impersonation  of  King  Alfred.  And  here  it  is.  ... 
The  play  will  stand  not  alone  upon  the  grateful  response  it  wins  from 
the  English  national  heart,  but  as  a  work  of  art.  .  .  .  The  author  is 
supremely  a  poet,  the  master  of  metaphor  not  less  than  of  melody.  .  .  . 
It  is  a  play  not  only  to  be  read  but  to  be  acted.  .  .  .  This  vivid  drama 
is  not  cast  in  the  conventional  classic  mould.  It  is  distinctly  and 
wholly  English  in  spirit  and  form,  and  intensely  modern  —  but  breath 
ing  the  air  of  morning,  of  springtime,  of  fresh  adventure.  —  HENRY 
MILLS  ALDEN,  The  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

King  Alfred's  noble  and  vigorous  character  is  limned  with  great 
skill,  while  Elfreda,  a  graceful  and  innocent  maiden,  flits  through  the 
play  like  a  woodland  fairy. —  The  Glasgow  Evening  News,  Scotland. 

The  living  Alfred  lives  in  this  gracious  play,  for  the  author  has 
fashioned  his  great  spirit  out  of  the  mist  of  time.  —  JAMES  DOUGLAS, 
The  Star,  London. 


ARTHUR  SYMONS 

POEMS 

A  Collected  Edition  of  the  Poet's  work,  issued  in  two  volumes, 
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THE  FOOL  OF  THE  WORLD  AND  OTHER 
POEMS 

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Stands  at  the  head  of  all  British  poets  of  his  generation.  — New 
York  Evening  Post. 

One  of  the  truest  poets  that  modern  England  owns.  — Bookman. 


THE   POEMS   OF   ERNEST   DOWSON 

Illustrations  and  a  Cover-design  by  Aubrey  Beardsley.  An  Introductory  Memoir 
by  Arthur  Symons,  and  a  Portrait,  izmo.  $1.50  net.  Half  morocco,  $4.00. 
Postage  10  cents. 

Belongs  to  the  class  that  Rossetti  does,  with  a  touch  of  Herrick,  and  something  which 
is  Dowson,  and  Dowson  alone.  —  DR.  TALCOTT  WILLIAMS  in  Book  Ne-ws. 

POEMS    OF    ARTHUR    CHRISTOPHER 
BENSON. 

Cloth.     lamo.     $1.50  net.      Postage  l^  cents. 

In  this  volume  we  have  a  welcome  gathering  together  of  the  principal  poems  issued  by 
Mr.  Arthur  Christopher  Benson  during  the  past  sixteen  years.  ...  In  this  new  form 
his  poems  should  make  new  friends.  —  London  Daily  Telegraph. 

CARMINA.     BY  THOMAS  A.  DALY. 

Cloth,      nmo.      $  I.  oo  net.      Postage  10  cents. 

A  collection  of  poems  by  this  well-known  author  of  Italian,  Irish  and  American  verse. 
The  volume  contains  all  of  the  most  popular  verses  from  "  Canzoni,''  in  addition  to  many 
new  ones  of  equal  appeal. 

NEW    POEMS.     BY  RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE. 

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THE  WIND  AMONG  THE   REEDS.     POEMS 

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The  genuine  spirit  of  Irish  antiquity  and  Irish  folk  lore  —  the  very  spirit  of  the  myth- 
makers  is  in  him. —  MR.  WILLIAM  ARCHER. 

THE    RUBAIYAT    OF    OMAR    KHAYYAM 

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Rendered  into  English  verse  by  EDWARD  FITZ GERALD.      With  9  illustrations. 

THE    ROSARY  AND   OTHER    POEMS 

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A  Landorian  touch  of  divine  simplicity.  —  The  Dial. 


THE   WORKS   OF   FRANCIS   THOMPSON 

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SISTER  SONGS :  An  Offering  to  Two  Sisters.  With  Frontispiece 
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SAMUEL    TAYLOR   COLERIDGE 

THE  POEMS  OF.  Edited  with  an  Introduction  by  ERNEST  HART 
LEY  COLERIDGE,  and  numerous  Illustrations  by  GERALD  METCALFE. 
8vo.  $3.50  net.  Postage  extra.  The  only  complete,  definitive, 
illustrated  edition  of  the  poems  of  the  author  of  "  Christabel," 
«« The  Ancient  Mariner,"  etc.  Several  hitherto  unpublished  poems 
are  included  in  this  edition. 

A.  E.  HOUSMAN 

A  SHROPSHIRE  LAD.  New  Edition.  Cloth.  i6mo.  gi.oonet. 
Postage  4  cents.  Half  morocco,  $3.00  net  ;  postage  5  cents. 

SAPPHO 

Memoir,  Text,  Selected  Renderings,  and  a  Literal  Translation  by  HENRY 
THORNTON  WHARTON.  Illustrated  in  Photogravure.  New  Edition. 
$2.00  net.  Postage  10  cents. 


THE  POETRY  OF  STEPHEN  PHILLIPS 

PAOLO  AND  FRANCESCA:  A  Tragedy  in  Four 
Acts.  By  STEPHEN  PHILLIPS.  New  Edition  with  Photogravure 
Frontispiece  after  the  painting  by  G.  F.  WATTS,  R.  A. 

i2mo  Twelfth  Edition  $1-25  net 

New  York  Times—  Nothing  finer  has  come  to  us  from  an  English  pen  in  the  way  of  a 
poetic  and  literary  play  since  the  appearance  of  Taylor's  "  Philip  van  Artevelde." 

Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle—  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  "  Paolo  and  Francesca"  is  the 
most  important  example  of  English  dramatic  poetry  that  has  appeared  since  Browning  died. 

Philadelphia  Press  —  "  Paolo  and  Francesca  "  has  beauty,  passion,  and  power.  .  .  . 
The  poem  deserves  a  wide  reading  on  account  of  its  intrinsic  merit  and  interest. 

HEROD  :  A  Tragedy.     By  STEPHEN  PHILLIPS. 

X2mo  Twenty-First  Thousand  $1.25  net 

Times  —  Here,  then,  is  a  noble  work  of  dramatic  imagination  dealing  greatly  with  great 
passions;  multicolored  and  exquisitely  musical.  Mr.  Stephen  Phillips  is  not  only  a  poet,  but 
that  still  rarer  thing,  a  dramatic  poet. 

MR.  WILLIAM  ARCHER  (in  The  World)  —  The  elder  Dumas  speaking  with  the  voice  of 
Milton. 

AtAetueum  —  Not  unworthy  of  the  author  of  "  The  Duchess  of  Malfi." 

POEMS.  By  STEPHEN  PHILLIPS.  Including  "  Marpessa ' '  and 
"Christ  in  Hades." 

I2mo  Thirteenth  Edition  $1.25  net 

Times  —  Mr.  Phillips  is  a  poet,  one  of  the  half  dozen  men  of  the  younger  generation, 
whose  writings  contain  the  indefinable  quality  which  makes  for  permanence. 

Spectator — In  his  new  volume  Mr.  Stephen  Phillips  more  than  sustains  the  promise 
made  by  his  "Christ  in  Hades";  here  is  real  poetic  achievement  —  the  veritable  gold  of 
song. 

Literature  —  No  such  remarkable  book  of  verse  as  this  has  appeared  for  several  years. 

MARPESSA.  By  STEPHEN  PHILLIPS.  With  Illustrations  by 
PHILIP  CONNARD. 

Cloth,  50  cents  net  Leather,  75  cents  net 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS — Tennyson  at  his  age  had  not  done  better. 

NEW  POEMS.  Including  "lole  :  A  Tragedy  in  One  Act  " ; 
"Launcelot  and  Guinevere,' *  "  Endymion,"  and  many  other 
hitherto  unpublished  poems. 

i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25  net.    Half  mor.,  $4.00  net.     Postage  xo  tts. 


RECENT   POETRY 


SELECTED  POEMS  OF 

JOHN   DAVIDSON 

i2mo  % 

Leather,  $1.50  net  Cloth,  $1.25  net 

The  Nation — An  uncommonly  masculine  volume. 

Chicago  Record-Herald — What  every  admirer  of  this  virile  poet  de 
sires,  a  brief  summary  of  his  important  work  from  which  an  adequate 
conception  of  his  style  and  versatility  can  be  obtained. 

Athenaeum  —  There  is  urgent  need  for  a  collected  edition  of  Mr. 
Davidson's  poems  and  plays.  The  volume  and  variety  of  his  poetry 
ought  to  win  for  it  wider  acceptance.  It  is  indeed  curious  that  poetry  so 
splendid  as  Mr.  Davidson's  should  fail  to  get  fuller  recognition.  There 
are  many  aspects  of  his  genius  which  ought  to  make  his  work  popular 
in  the  best  sense  of  the  word.  He  has  almost  invented  the  modern  ballad. 
...  He  handles  the  metre  with  masterly  skill,  filling  it  with  imagina 
tive  life  and  power. 

Times —  There  are  not  more  than  two  or  three  living  writers  of  Eng 
lish  verse  out  of  whose  poems  so  good  a  selection  could  be  made.  The 
poems  in  the  selection  are  not  only  positive  —  they  are  visible. 

Literary  World — We  count  ourselves  among  those  to  whom  Mr. 
Davidson  has  made  himself  indispensable. 

Daily  Mail — Mr.  Davidson  is  our  most  individual  singer.  His 
variety  is  as  surprising  as  his  virility  of  diction  and  thought. 

St.  'James' s  Gazette  —  This  volume  may  serve  as  an  introduction  to  a 
poet  of  noble  and  distinctive  utterance. 

New  Age  —  The  book  contains  much  that  Mr.  Davidson's  warmest 
admirers  would  best  wish  to  remember  him  by.  There  is  a  subtle  charm 
about  these  poems  which  eludes  definition,  which  defies  analysis. 

T.  .P.'j  Weekly — Mr.  Davidson  is  one  of  the  most  individual  of  living 
poets ;  he  has  a  rare  lyrical  faculty. 

Morning  Post — Mr.  Davidson  is  as  true  a  poet  as  we  have  now 
among  us  ...  he  has  included  nothing  that  we  do  not  admire. 

Daily  Graphic  —  This  delightful  volume. 

Dundee  Advertiser — Its  poetry  gives  out  a  masterful  note.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Davidson's  poem  pictures. 


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